…mind talks…

Freudian psychology

And when it comes, the butler shall open the huge oak doors. The Lady shall step out in her five-inch gold heels, and glide across the path to the Mercedes Benz waiting at the other end, her beautiful dark red hair brushing against the wind, and the satin ruffles of her long black dress sweeping lightly along. The chauffeur shall step out and open the car doors for her, and usher her in.

And then the Lady shall go on a journey deep into the unknown, but she shall not be worried, for she knows she is in safe hands.

Not every Tom, Dick, and Harry is capable of comprehending my writings; it takes one of considerable wisdom, I suppose.

Does Time wait for you, or do you wait for time, I wonder? (Photo credits to Ekamil Razali)

Yes, I am aware time is ticking by. The minute hands are sweeping away by the day, and at each forward move rocks of obstacles are hurled my way. Yet it is only the code by which this intangible thing called time works.

The effort spent – time itself, and energy as well – it shall not go to waste. When I wrote The Blitzkreig, I meant it. When I wrote all the other posts after that, I meant them too. Whilst I have been busy sharpening my swords of authenticity, I have been through nightmares too, where pots kept clanking and alarms kept ringing perpetuously. Probably I was faced with a paradigm shift, but no, not that I deny it, however it absolutely is not so! It has been like this until someone came over and shook me tlll he woke me from my bad dreams. Just saying.

Tragedy befell the poor, pretty mind, and it purged out a loud: “Oh!” Nonetheless, the neurons still decided to head on to the party instead together with the protons and the electrons. Together, they downed high doses of whisky, zapping all the way up and down through the cranium, and left with empty bottles lying on the dance floor.

And emerged as one from the doors more silent, solemn, and whatever else, with their minds readied for mental combat. The thing is that every time after something bad occurs, a bigger, brighter thing is churned out. At least, that is the general idea most people think happen.

The night is calling, and the fleecy clouds that adorn the stark sky are soon closing in over the round moon. Out in the marsh, I see a dark horse galloping steadily toward me. There on his leather saddle lies a little sack of maybe heroine. Should I climb him up, and ride with him, and ingest all the substance in that sack? Or should I not?

I need answers fast.

Dehydrated of – what? (Photo Credits to Alicia Ai Leng)

I feel like giving my baby (my site, really!) a complete makeover – sort of. I feel like emblazoning all over her critical reviews of movies, and drama, and whatever else that has to do with performance and the eclectic arts. There are two actions here involved – not only reviewing, but also writing on those reviews. I do not have any intentions of discontinuing other topics that are currently in progress. I feel like adding other subjects into the cocktail, things like feminity, and fashion, and dancing, and music, and dreaming, and the science of happiness and all things positive. If it were dancing, I definitely would write on hip-hop. Or any kind of dance. It does not really matter, does it?

It was dear old Socrates who had once upon a time mentioned that the unexamined life is not worth living. Life is a never-ending piece of examination, isn’t it. It is never static, for life is but a winding river gushing with water. It overflows into a whirlpool of information – and overpowered by the enormous strength of the currents one is swirled in together, consumed in all, for once, of its magnificient omnipotence.

Oh well. That is because I am doing it too. Question is, should I divert my attention to another site, or should I just remain here zapping my Bazooka thoughts, under the pseudonym Red Scarlet?

My brains have been dehydrated of words like a burning desert in dire need of water, the brown earth caked hard in the excruciating heat. It is extremely thirsty of whatever that quenches its – what? I feel like grabbing firm hold of a shovel, losing control like a crazy word-o-maniac, and continuously digging all the way down, and down, and down, until it reaches the intoxicated id. I feel like revealing its naked, provocative truths to the surface of the superego, out of the frontal lobe – where dreams meet reality.